The detention room was dark and cold, the air thick with dust and silence. The boy sat alone, staring at the floor. The teacher watched him, her eyes like twin daggers, slicing through the quiet.
And then—the door creaked.
Something moved. A flicker of a shadow, a rustle of static. The boy looked up.
Mr. Static stepped in.
He moved like a broken marionette, limbs jerking, coat flapping. The eye on his TV head swirled, faster and faster, colors bleeding into one another. The teacher froze, her mouth open, her face pale.
"Wha—who—?" she stammered, taking a step back.
But Mr. Static just laughed. A low, crackling laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep and dark. And then—SLASH.
His hand shot out, long fingers stretching, twisting. Sharp claws dug into the teacher's face, pulling, tearing. Blood splattered the walls, thick and black. She screamed, but the sound was cut short as Mr. Static yanked—hard. Skin and flesh peeled away, revealing bone, muscle, nothing. Her body crumpled, falling to the floor in a heap of torn fabric and splintered bones.
The boy didn't move. He couldn't. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a silent scream. Mr. Static turned to him, the spinning eye slowing, slowing, until it was just...staring.
"Do not do bad things," he whispered, his voice like nails scraping against metal. "Be good."
And then—blink. He was gone. The room was empty again. The teacher's broken body lay on the floor, twisted and wrong. The boy just sat there, staring, his mind numb.
That night, he stumbled back home, feet dragging, head spinning. The house loomed up, dark and ugly, like a beast crouched in the shadows. He stepped inside, his shoulders hunched.
"Where were you?" A voice growled from the darkness. His father.
The boy flinched, shrinking back. "I—I was at school—"
SMACK. His father's hand came down, heavy and hard, sending him sprawling to the floor.
"Don't lie to me," his father snarled. "You're useless. A waste. Nothing."
Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, but he didn't cry. He didn't dare. His father kicked him, hard, sending pain shooting up his ribs. "Go to your room," he spat. "Get out of my sight."
The boy crawled away, his body aching, his throat tight. He climbed into his bed, curling up under the thin, rough blanket. His body hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.
But he didn't cry.
He just stared at the wall, eyes wide, unblinking, the taste of old cake still lingering on his tongue. And as he drifted into the gray, murky haze of sleep, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
"Be good."
The boy lay still, his eyes wide open in the cold, dark room. Sleep didn't come. It never did—not really. His body was stiff, heavy as if the mattress were filled with rocks. And then—a sound split through the silence.
Screams.
Loud, raw, and twisted, they tore through the walls, rattling the empty house. The boy shot up, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew those screams. He knew that voice. Slowly, his hands shaking, he slid off the bed and shuffled toward the door.
He opened it just a crack—creeeeeaaak—and peered out into the hallway. The screams were louder now, high and shrill, mixed with something else—deep, cruel laughter. He crept forward, his bare feet silent against the icy floor.
And there—in the living room—he saw them.
His mother was crumpled on the floor, her body small and hunched, shoulders trembling. Above her, his father loomed, a dark, hulking shape, his face twisted in a snarl. He was shouting, screaming, his words slurred and jagged, hands swinging wildly.
"Stupid! Worthless! Nothing!" His father's fists rained down, each blow landing with a sickening thud. His mother whimpered, a tiny, broken sound, her body shaking with each strike.
"Please, stop—" she gasped, but the words only seemed to fuel his rage.
The boy's heart clenched, his stomach churning. He wanted to move, to do something—but his feet were frozen, his body glued to the spot. And then—
Bzzzt.
The lights flickered. The air crackled with static. The boy's eyes darted to the corner of the room—and there he was.
Mr. Static.
He stood there, tall and thin, his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow. The eye on his TV head swirled, colors bleeding together—red, green, blue. Round and round and round. His father froze, mid-swing, his face twisted in confusion.
"What the—who—?" he growled, stepping back. "Who the hell—"
But Mr. Static didn't wait. He moved fast—too fast—lunging forward in a blur of black and white. His hands stretched, fingers elongating, turning into sharp, jagged claws. He grabbed the father's head, twisting, pulling, tearing. Flesh and bone gave way with a wet, crunching sound. Blood splattered the walls, thick and dark. His father's scream was short, choked off as his head snapped back, twisted at an impossible angle.
And then—rip—Mr. Static yanked, and the head came free, dangling by the hair like a broken doll. The father's body crumpled, collapsing into a heap of twitching limbs. Blood pooled around it, soaking into the carpet.
The boy stared, his breath caught in his throat. His father's head rolled to the floor, eyes wide and empty, mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
"Be good," Mr. Static whispered, his voice soft and crackling. The eye on his TV head blinked, once, twice. And then—poof—he was gone. Just...gone. As if he'd never been there at all.
The boy's chest tightened, his body frozen. But then—
"You…" A low, hateful voice hissed behind him. He turned, slowly, and there she was.
His mother.
Her eyes were wild, her face streaked with blood and tears. She staggered to her feet, fists clenched, trembling. "You killed him," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You did this. You killed him!"
"No, I—" the boy whispered, shaking his head, but the words stuck in his throat. She lunged at him, her hands swinging wildly.
"Murderer!" she screamed, slapping him across the face. The boy stumbled back, pain shooting through his cheek. "You did this!" Another slap, hard and vicious. "You killed your own father!"
Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. "I didn't—"
"Liar!" She slapped him again, harder this time. "You think I don't know? You think I'm blind?" Her fists pounded against his chest, each hit sending pain shooting through his body. "I should've—should've—"
And then—bzzzt.
The air crackled again.
The boy's mother froze, her body stiffening. Slowly, her head turned, eyes widening in horror. Mr. Static was back, standing right behind her. His face—no, his TV head—flickered, the eye spinning faster and faster. A low, growling laugh bubbled up, filling the room.
The boy's mother let out a strangled gasp, stumbling back. "No—no, please—"
But Mr. Static didn't wait. His claws shot out, slicing through the air, and slashed—straight through her chest. She screamed, high and shrill, blood spraying out in a thick, dark arc. Her body convulsed, twitching, and then—
Rip.
He tore her apart, shredding flesh and bone as if it were paper. Blood splattered the walls, the floor, his face. The boy watched, his eyes wide, his heart pounding. And then—silence.
The room was empty again. His parents' bodies lay in broken, bloody heaps on the floor. And the boy...the boy just stood there, numb, empty. The world around him seemed to blur, fading into gray.
Slowly, he turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed through the empty house, hollow and soft. He stumbled back into his room, the door swinging shut behind him with a low, creaking groan.
The TV in the corner flickered—bzzzt, bzzzt. Mr. Static was there, on the screen, dancing. Twirling and spinning, his long coat billowing around him. His laughter bubbled up, low and crackly, filling the room. The boy watched, his eyes dull, his body still.
And then—Mr. Static's face changed.
The TV screen rippled, shifting, and slowly, the image transformed. The figure on the screen shrank, twisted, morphed. And there—staring back at him—was himself. The boy's own face looked out from the TV, eyes wide and empty, mouth stretched into a grin.
They were the same.
The boy blinked, his heart stuttering. Slowly, he turned to the mirror on the wall. His reflection stared back at him—small, pale, cheeks smeared with blood. His hands were covered in it, red and sticky, the dark stains spreading up his arms.
And then—movement.
In the mirror, a shadow shifted. The boy's reflection warped, twisted. The face in the mirror was no longer his own.
Mr. Static grinned out at him from the glass, the eye on his TV head spinning, spinning, spinning. His blood-streaked face stared back, a dark, twisted smile spreading across his lips.
"Be good," he whispered, his voice echoing in the boy's ears.
And then—
The mirror shattered.
The boy stood there, shards of glass glittering around his feet, staring at the empty space where his reflection used to be.
The TV crackled behind him. He turned slowly, his eyes dull and empty.
The screen was dark.